Snortfic
by Ledu
Summary: Trapped in a poorly written world where nothing makes sense, will Alex Mercer realize that the author is a complete nutjob, or will he be trapped behind the fourth wall forever? Rated T because of chunky salsa and the occasional use of french.
1. Chapter 42

**A/N: Dear lord why did I write this**

The dust began to settle, swirling around in funny looking patterns. Of course it was one of those "In media res" stories in which all kinds of stuff happened before you even got a chance to read it. Who writes stories like that anymore? The author does, sure, but who else? Anyway, stuff was happening, and this stuff in particular involved the viral being that was once known as Alex Mercer and a pot of flour. Not a flower pot, which is remarkably similar in pronunciation despite being vastly different in actual contents as well as purpose. It was about this time that the author realized he was starting to ramble on about random crap that his dear readers really did not give a flying bucket of pig feces about.

Yes, so, Alex Mercer and a flour pot, and in this case, Alex was busy defecating chocolate into it. While this may seem bizarre to you, it was your fault for deciding to begin reading this story right now, and not earlier while Alex was being chased about Disney World by a giant leg of ham (which we'll be getting to in a series of confusing indie montages). The grinding and roaring of the cement mixers was what kept Alex from finishing his duties, and he burst out the front door of Hilary Clinton's home for enraged avians only to be assaulted by hordes of adoring camera-wielding fan girls. Not wishing to be featured in even more of those comics inspired by the all-encompassing 'Rule 34,' Alex charged into a nearby alleyway.

Here he found comfort in isolation. The only other being that could be considered alive was a balding hobo in a yellow jacket, slumped up against a wall. "Wah hallo dar," the hobo said, cheerily greeting his new visitor "Ah'm Coal McGraph an' ah welcome ya to ma magikul palace!" He sounded like a chain smoker, and he probably listened to country music.

Mercer quickly formed a bit of his biomass into several green, rectangular shapes with archaic markings on them, then ripped them off and handed it to this Coal fellow. "Here's seventeen dollars for beer. I was never here," he growled in a most gangstaly fashion.

As Alex rocketed away from the oncoming estrogen brigade, the disheveled hobo was suddenly mobbed by requests for crossovers and some horrific process known as shipping. Coal watched Alex escape, vowing revenge one day, just before being asked to pose for a female variant of himself.

Far off in the wilds known in the human tongue as California, current, and as-of-yet undefeated ping pong world champion Robert "The Specialist" Cross was eating a hotdog. It was a pretty good hotdog, but was lacking a bun, hotdog meat, and various condiments. Outside of Rob's fantasy world, he was doing latrine duty for not dying like how he was supposed to in the canon. However, these toilets were gold plated and automatically cleaned themselves, so he really didn't have much to do, except watch large pink elephants gracefully fly by. Outside of the afterlife, Cross was still pretty dead.

With that business taken care of, the author realized he had no incentive to wrap-up whatever this horrid conglomeration of words was called, set to work writing the next installation, and avoided the word "chapter," as it implied some form of continuity.


	2. Chapter 2,147,483,647

As he left the gaggle of gals behind, Alex chuckled to himself in the only way a sentient viral being could. He was remembering a joke from one of the people he had consumed, something about Mitt Romney, cows, global nuclear annihilation and yellow cheese. Actually, looking back on it, the man had been drunk, and it really wasn t all that funny.

Just when Mercer finally figured out what the pickle had to do with all of it, a hellfire missile slammed into his head, knocking him off course and sending him sprawling into a nearby women's fashion boutique. Well that certainly got your attention, right? You see, here the author was going on about dead guys who probably won t show up later and small magically friendly equestrians and-

After peeling himself off the far wall and flicking away the odd piece of lingerie that had been caught on him, Alex raced out of the gaping hole created by his impact, biomass spiraling and shifting, enlarging his musscles and forming his hands into massive fists, perfectly suited for crushing and grinding whatever had shot him into dust.

But there was no tank or helicopter waiting outside for him. Instead, a lone man floated up, propelled by rocket boots with jagged purple lightning decals on them.

"Phwoaarrr, yer back fer mo , ya two eaded drongo?" he said in what the author hoped was an Australian accent. "Hurrhurr, Ah got anotha few ah those whar tha came from!"

This new arrival was so unsettlingly manly that the author will now spend a precious paragraph describing him in detail.

Accents aside, he sported a mullet, full beard, and permanently smelled like Old Spice. On one hand, he had a wrist mounted missile launcher with a bayonet and laser firing capabilities, and on the other a metallic fist with a kung-fu grip of doom. Blood red wisps of Blacklight occasionally flowed across his body, and above all, he was more muscular than the Hulk on a bad day. Further driving the Hulk thing home, he was wearing only black boxers with pieces of bacon sewed on. It was real, crispity crunchity bacon, not a pattern or any sissy crap like that. This guy meant serious business.

"And what the hell are you supposed to be?" asked Alex, annoyed that he had no fourth-wall breaking abilities, which could have enabled him to read the paragraph above, instead of being forced to stare at this brutish mess of a man to glean away details about him.

"Oi m Gen ral Marty Stu Robert Randall McTaggart, or Gen'ral Awesomepants if ya prefer, 'ead of Blackwartch, an I've come ta wipe yer dorty face off tha map!"

Marty's nickname was not just so much hot air. I mean, do YOU have pants with pieces of REAL BACON sewed on? I thought not. You'd probably have eaten them anyways. The pants, not the bacon.

It was then that Alex realized he was dealing with the bane of what could have been a decent story. Immediately after, he plummeted to the street, having forgotten that he could only float about for so long. A couple of omnipresent taxis were sent flying into other taxis from the force of the crash, conveniently setting the stage for some sort of street brawl, whilst creating a kind of cool domino effect. By sheer coincidence, the few inhabitants on that side of Manhattan had been partaking in a heavy metal appreciation parade, blaring earsplitting, adrenaline-pumping music.

General Awesomepants fired a few more missles in the general direction that Alex had landed, and then dove down to confront ZEUS in hand-to-hand combat, just as the author decided to be a jerk and cut the chapter short.


	3. Chapter 16,180,339,887

Two of the three shots fired hit their mark, pummeling Alex enough that the third one missed, vaporizing a nearby cow (which had materialized on the spot in momentary tangle of quantum physics) and set fire to a former hotdog factory. Greenpeace protesters were outraged, what with all the methane being released.

Before Mercer had time to recover, Marty Stu Robert Randall McTaggart grabbed him by the throat with his kung-fu hand of doom, casually turned, and threw him through the twenty third floor window of a conveniently placed skyscraper, cleverly disguised as a giant Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.

Marty Stu Robert Randall McTaggart, also known as General Awesomepants, had watched his share of Michael Bay movies, and he now figured it was a good idea to fire off another few rounds of hellfire missiles at the Mediocre Maleficent Magical Mundane Monstrous Monotonous Marshmallow Man, bringing the thing down in a flaming, highly explosive and tax deductible wreck. Hollywood copyright lawyers were on the phone immediately, but Marty Stu set his cell ringer to mute.

Several minutes passed. The only noises besides prerecorded tracks of Hollerin Jimmy's black metal band were the flames crackling and hotdog factories collapsing.

General Awesomepants took a deep snort of smoky air, satisfied that ZEUS was dead.

"But wait!" said a voice in his mind. "There's more!"

"Yeah," intoned another. "If ZEUS was dead, then wouldn't this stupid story be over already?"

"Holy tacos," groaned a third source, "you're not helping the plot with these needless internal dialogues."

A small voice originating near Marty Stu's pancreas piped up. "Mmm, tacos. I vote Mexican grub tonight." A chorus of many other voices followed in unanimous agreement.

Ignoring the rumbling from his abdomen, General Awesomepants pulled a Gameboy out of his pocket, popped some bubblegum in his mouth, and walked off to find a comfy chair in which he could conduct important business. A few crows flew overhead, pooping on anything that looked remotely humanoid. Some clouds floated around, occasionally making obscene symbols.

And then the Stay Puft Marshmallow Dude's head burst off of his body.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: haha i bet you guys figured there'd be some more 'and so the author did blahdeeblahblah' crap**

**nope he died**

**he was eaten by cerberus syndrome cause now were gettin into srs bsns territory**


	4. Chapter 0

One annoyed and somewhat dusty Alex Mercer looked out of a giant neck hole, surveyed what remained of the sidewalk and street where the giant mascot had fallen, twisted his neck back and forth to get a few cracks out, and menacingly walked forward the whole of two steps before realizing that he was still about ten feet above the ground.

The resulting crash set off a chain reaction that caused a specific butterfly to flap its wings in such a way that a massive tornado was created somewhere in Kansas through a series of highly improbable events before kidnapping a young girl and her little dog too. With a grunt, Alex pushed himself off the ground, flicked away some of the dust that was left on his leather jacket, and, muttering profanities, sauntered forth in search of Marty Stu.

The first few city blocks Alex passed through were deserted. Hollerin' Jimmy and his heavy metal parade had scattered as the Wa'sturn an' Cuhntry Apperishiashun Brigade reared its fat-chewing head, banjos a' blazin', before disappearing under the nonexistent cover of late afternoon. The creepy guys that just stood around bus stops all day were gone too. Hell, even the crows were silent, save the ones clustered around the omnipresent McDonalds, pecking at the stray French fries.

The only noise, besides Alex's footfalls, was the merry tune of an ice cream truck as it drove about on its route. Everybody likes ice cream, except for lactose intolerants. But don't worry about them, they probably eat people to make up for it. The jingling of the tunes grew louder, as if it was homing in on Mercer.

"But I don't even like ice cream!" Alex yelled at no one in particular.

He tensed as the sound of wheels grinding into asphalt came closer. The truck pulled around the corner, and slowed next to Alex. The mustachioed driver turned his baseball-cap-wearing head to Mercer.

"Hurlo, urh'm tha urthur's des-pur-urt uhttempt at geddin thur plot ta move ahn."

_No. This will not do. There's already been too many meta things like this_, thought Alex, before consuming the poor chap. Memories he didn't really care about flashed through his mind. The first day on the job. Cheating some drunken miscreant out of a buck to pay for dinner. Ripping off the parents of sugar-crazed children. And then, the more recent events began showing up. A huge bearded man with a mullet, ordering... what was that? Some kind of blue quadruped with violet-maroon gum ball eyes and… was that some kind of rainbow hair? Geeze this guy has seen some serious sh**-uh**, stuff. The giant then paid with a credit card, and, ever the crafty one, Ice Cream Man stole all his personal details and used his convenient personal time machine to figure out where one "_Marty Stu_" would be for the next fifty years.

Shaking his head, Alex heard the man's last train of thought. "Hurrhur, turld yu I'd ged th' plot muvin'."

**'`'`'`'``'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'``'`'`'`'`'`'`'`**

Marty Stu was having quite the day at the local park. After eating his fill of ice cream, he discovered that the playground was devoid of hostile children and busied himself conducting important military physics tests, such as how far a grown man can be flung from a swing set, or the maximum velocity that can be reached on one of those spinny things before the passenger is forced to empty their stomach. All of a sudden, outta nowhere, a wild Alex Mercer appeared. General McAwesomepants quickly activated his rocket boots, rolling his shoulders around in what he figured was an intimidating manner.

Alex barreled forward, propelled by his hatred of Marty Stu, and whatever that red goop he kept spewing out of his limbs was. The author believes that it tastes like cherry or maybe pomegranate if you're a pessimist, but raspberry isn't out of the question either. Tendrils of Blacklight ascended Mercer's arms as his fingers elongated and sharpened into a pair of claws, and he emitted a guttural roar of anger. He rushed up the side of a conveniently placed skyscraper, each footstep sending a cascade of glass to the earth as he gained altitude before launching off towards Marty Stu.

Momentum and brute force buried Mercer's talons deep inside Marty Stu's chest and shoulders, unleashing a small rain of blood. In desperate response, General McAwesomepants fired off three rounds of point blank missles. Alex loosened his grip on Marty Stu's arms enough for the latter to deliver a vicious haymaker, twisting Alex's head to one side with the force of the blow.

Mercer began to fall back to the ground, as webs of tendrils tended to the damage incurred. He withdrew his claws, simultaneously bursting forward in a liberal defiance of physics. Reaching out, ZEUS shifted his biomass, elongating and thickening his arms and fingers. Bulging muscles that made Charles Atlas look like an anemic fifteen-year-old erupted about, as did fins and other spiky things that were typical of deadly viruses incarnate. His ham-size hands grasped Marty Stu near where the claws had sunk in, before one of them balled up into a fist.

That fist then found itself hurled towards Marty Stu's face. A series of loud splatters and sickening crunches followed, quieting down after the fist made it all the way through and was subsequently torn free. A man from the special effects crew popped open a can of Pappa Goregini's extra chunky tomato sauce with bone fragments("_Why yes we are indeed OSHA compliant_" collector's edition) and went to work liberally spreading it about the scene.

The two floated in the air, still supported by General McAwesomepant's rocket boots, Alex took a moment to examine his handiwork. He suppressed the urge to make a one-liner, probably something to do with religion and holiness because there was now a large hole where his enemy's face had been, since it would be stupid.

Alex was about to fall back down and continue on his merry way when Marty Stu's robotic kung-fu arm of doom grabbed his shirt. There was a loud rustling, accompanied by jimmies and schlorping sounds as tentacles weaved their way about Marty Stu's face. Mercer, having nothing better to do, bemusedly watched. The tendrils, now receding, revealed horrific features, such as a bulging cranium, a massive jutting jaw, a pair of squinting, almost mocking eyes, and a broken nose.

The new visage of Marty Stu gave the widest grin known to mankind.

"hurr… Problem, Alex?"

Alex's foot met McAwesomepant's crotch at full force. Marty's grin melted as his eyes bulged out, face contorting in pain, humiliation and contempt. And then he exploded into a million bits of confetti and candy.  
>Alex's urge to make one-liners could no longer contain itself.<br>Landing back on earth, he uttered one word as he straightened his back.  
>"Solution."<p>

Dusting off his hands, a thought struck Alex.  
>"OW GHDMMIT"<br>Then he recalled that there was one last thing to be done. Something that had bothered Alex long before the incident with the pot of flour. Something that should have been done long ago.

Provided he rushed through to his goal at top speed, it'd be a mere sixty hours. He had the dying screams of thousands trapped in his mind forever, but this was the one thing he needed to do to live out his existence in relative peace.

Of course, he needed to make preparations before his journey got underway. Alex's first and only stop was the penthouse he had gotten for Dana after consuming Donald Trump, to drop in and make sure she was alright.

Resting on the sill of a window his sister had carelessly left open, he called out for her.  
>"Hey, Dana?"<br>"I'm kind of busy right now," she said, furiously mashing buttons on her laptop.  
>"Yeah, uh, I'm going to be gone for a few days. If something happens to you, you're kinda screwed." He thought for a moment before adding "Stop making pixel porn of Cole McGrath." before hopping back down to the street.<p>

**'`'`'`'``'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'``'`'`'`'`'`'`'`**

_Two and a half days. I'll wait for him to wake up so I can savor it that much more._  
><em>Sun's rising. Make it three days.<em>  
><em>It's been a few hours. He's getting up. Headed toward the computer.<em>  
><em>Here we go.<em>

_He's sat down, turned on the computer. Clicked on a few things, with his fist pressed to his cheek._  
><em>This is it. Make it count.<em>

**'`'`'`'``'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'``'`'`'`'`'`'`'`**

The window was smashed apart, broken bits of glass littering the carpet of the room that the hooded figure had just leapt into. His icy blue eyes locked with those of his prey.  
>"You." he growled.<br>"Me?"  
>"Yeah, you. This is a bad story and you should feel bad. Stop writing it."<p>

So I did.  
><strong>The end.<strong>

****_**A/N: haby birday**_


End file.
